With that, I disconnect the call and place the phone back in my pocket. Taking in a cleansing breath, I slowly exhale to the count of three, hoping my mother won’t spiral because I was dumb enough to answer his call.
I know better. There’s no way that speaking with him ever ends well. But I’m fucking done with him. Seeing my mother permanently trapped in a sullen, dejected, clinical depression has hardened me to any chance at forgiveness.
I’ll never understand why my grandfather put such a stipulation on his will. He’d always been such a caring, supportive man. He watched as my youth was tainted by my father’s selfish ways. The years of neglect. My father’s time was always better spent with a business associate. Or at least, that’s what he’d alluded. In hindsight, I can’t help but wonder if there were other women all along.
Regardless, this ostentatious life isn’t for me. While my grandfather had seemingly made it work, always carving out time for my grandma and myself, I couldn’t deny that his son had turned into a greedy bastard. Was there some way my grandfather could’ve prevented it? Had he neglected my dad? Had he modeled a life Dad couldn’t help but want to emulate?
There are some things in life that are beyond comprehension. I’d made my mind up. Taking an internship at Grandfather’s financial holdings firm wasn’t in the cards for me. I’d yearned to work in the fire service since I was a kid. It was important to me that I contribute to the greater good. To the community where I lived.
I know full well how blessed I am financially. There was no way my father could spend his inheritance in his lifetime. What need was there to acquire more? The very least I could do in exchange for a financially free future, was to live modestly and find a way to give back.
I contemplate starting dinner, hoping it will distract Mom from what she’s witnessed. Maybe I can get her to help chop veggies again. “Sorry about that. I was thinking stir fry for dinner. Sound okay?” I ask, returning inside, locking the glass door behind me.
“Was that your father?”
My head falls. “Yes.” I wait for the usual inquisition. Is she wondering if he mentioned her name? If he’s sorry for all he’d done to her?Would this once-proud woman actually take him back if he pretended to be sorry?
Quickly changing the subject, I diligently start to gather the items I’ll need for dinner, cabinet doors flying as I search through her spice drawer. “I was thinking chicken and shrimp with veggies. Can you wash the snow peas?”
She simply nods, acknowledging my request while simultaneously accepting the fact any talk of my father is not up for further discussion. This is dangerous territory with her. Nothing good can come of it.
We continue to work in tandem, my taking control of meal prep but recruiting her to assist like my sous chef, cleaning, chopping, and retrieving serving dishes, just like I’d done for her when I was a kid. I know many adult kids have to change roles and care for their elderly parents for any host of reasons, physical health, dementia, or financial to name a few. But I never imagined that depression could be this relentless in my mother’s destruction.
Anyone who thinks it isn’t possible to die of a broken heart is kidding themselves. I’ve been watching it happen in slo-mo for years.
Walkinginto the firehouse for my next twenty-four-hour shift, I barely have both feet in the door when music starts to blare. My head pops up to find Matt, Jason, and Brecken all staring at me with shitty grins on their faces as “Dancing Queen” by Abba plays in the background.
I flick them all both of my middle fingers. “Fuck off. All of you.” The last thing I need after dealing with my father, the disheartening visit with my mother, and the fact that the one girl I’ve ever felt anything for split without a word is being continually mocked by these fuckwits.
“Awe, c’mon, Smoke. You know we’re just messin’ with ya.” Jason gives me a reassuring look, trying to convey he had nothing to do with this.
I’m about to clap back that I know exactly who was behind this when the station’s alarm tones start to ring.
“Engine 12, Engine 12. Respond to a house fire. 322 Sycamore Lane. 322 Sycamore Lane. You’re responding to a grease fire in the garage. Everyone is outside the building. But that’s only cause I had to warn Junior he’d be in big trouble if he went back in there to get his Chili Cook Off trophy from last year,” Henrietta adds.
We’ve all quickly donned our turn out gear and helmets and are seated in the engine, flying down Main Street in the direction of Junior Dean’s place when I hear Jason’s voice come through the headset.
“Man. I’ll give Magnolia Pointe that much. They may not be a lot bigger than Sycamore, but in the short time I helped out down there, at least their dispatch didn’t come across the radio sounding like something from an oldHee Hawepisode.”
I literally scratch my head. “What the hell isHee Haw?” I choke out. “You forget I grew up in Jersey.”
Jason’s voice cracks with laughter. “It was an old hillbilly variety show my parents used to watch when I was a kid. I doubt you could even find it on YouTube anymore. But some of the women in the skits sounded a lot like Henrietta.”
In no time, we turn onto Sycamore and can see dark smokebillowing from the driveway. I sit a little taller in my seat, knowing you need to be prepared for anything around here. It may come out as a goofy call, but any fire can quickly get out of hand.
As Matt parks the engine, we all jump out and grab our gear to get to work as Jason approaches Junior. “Hey, Junior. What the hell happened?”
“I dunno. I was just trying to do what my nutrition lady said.”
Burn the house down?
“How’s that?” Jason prods.
“Well, she’s been after me to eat better. Guess she ain’t a big fan of the dad bod.” He chuckles and grabs his rotund abdomen with both hands, jiggling it for effect. Once I look a little closer, it appears he only has one bushy caterpillar of an eyebrow over his right eye. The left one’s been singed clean off.
Silvie is the local dietitian. She’s a nice lady. While this could’ve been a push to gain control of his weight, something tells me there is more to this story. “Are you diabetic?” I ask.
“Yeah. So they say. Anyhoo, she said I should try eating more turkey. Hell, I thought chicken was good for ya. But if turkey is better, I figured I’d try one of those fried turkeys I saw on the Facebook. So, I could do it again at Thanksgiving if it tastes as good as they say.”
